


Soldiering On

by Feral_Fic_Writer



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Age Regression/De-Aging, Hurt/Comfort, Infantilism, Other, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Psychological Trauma, Stockholm Syndrome
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-26
Updated: 2016-05-28
Packaged: 2018-05-29 07:27:03
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,675
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6364840
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Feral_Fic_Writer/pseuds/Feral_Fic_Writer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After being kidnapped by Moriarty and living through four years of forced age regression, Sherlock finds himself "rescued" and going "home" at last. Although without "Daddy" beside him, home certainly isn't where Sherlock's heart is.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Foundling

**Author's Note:**

  * For [KickingRoses](https://archiveofourown.org/users/KickingRoses/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Daddy's little soldier](https://archiveofourown.org/works/807814) by [fireofangels](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fireofangels/pseuds/fireofangels). 



> I was asked earlier this year to do a recovery fic by KickingRoses, inspired by Fireofangels' story: "Daddy's Little Soldier." This is the result.
> 
> Please know that no infringement is intended and absolutely all credit for the inspiration of this fic goes to the author Fireofangels, whose works continue to move/haunt so many.

* * *

 

The facility is dismal but it’s not unexpected, this far out in the Austrian countryside. Barred security doors belonging to another era open and the gray stone exterior gives way to age-yellowed halls smelling of harsh cleaners, old piss, and illness.

Mycroft wrinkles his nose in distaste. He would have had Sherlock moved immediately if not for the fragility of his brother’s state.

 _At least,_ he assures himself internally, _Sherlock will not have to remain here much longer._

Expected, a flip of his credentials at receiving and he’s immediately whisked into the bowels of the complex. The leather bag he clasps in one hand brushes a tailored leg as he walks. The press of it reminds him to slow his pace. Despite how desperate he feels, now is not the time to allow dignity to fall to the wayside.

The soft slap of his Italian shoes sounds loud on the scuffed tiles in the too-quiet corridors but he barely registers this over the pounding of his heart.  Up ahead, he catches sight of one of the team of physicians he’d sent here when Sherlock had first been recovered. The woman waits for him to draw close before pushing the door beside her open and ushering him in.

He’s been getting constant reports from the moment Sherlock was identified. Regardless, Mycroft extends his free hand, silently demanding the clipboard she holds with her latest notes.

It only takes a moment for him to glance through the pages before passing it back; all the words now locked into his photographic memory. He scans them internally even as he looks out the two way mirror into the room that berths his little brother.

He doesn’t know how many times he’s re-watched the footage from the military helicopter that found Sherlock. It had been sent out into the  countryside at the height of the flood after a missing party of national politicians. They'd been making their rural rounds for the upcoming election. Incongruous with the rough-hewn fields, the pilot’s attention had first been caught by the sleek shine of Moriarty’s flipped, all but submerged vehicle.

Mycroft thinks this may be the only time he’ll ever feel grateful for the man’s penchant for excess.

Sherlock was spotted next, water up to his shoulders, pressed by the current and clinging to the bumper. He almost drowned in the rescue, so unwilling to leave the car and his dead captors behind. Fortunately, he was too frozen and exhausted to put up much of a struggle, passing out as he was pulled into the copter.

While his strange costume was immediately noted, it wasn’t until Sherlock regained consciousness hours later that his rescuers fully realized just what exactly they had on their hands: not a politician, but an imbecile it seemed. And while Mycroft himself rarely differentiates too much between these two designations, Sherlock’s neither.

What he was, and remains, is traumatized, selectively mute, and deeply regressed.

Fortunately, Sherlock’s new wardens took his fingerprints and ran them. Seconds after they were entered Mycroft was on the phone making calls.

Since his brother’s rescue he has seen countless other footage, both from the hospital and the video recovered from Moriarty’s Austrian abode. Yet, despite all the visuals he’d gathered as the miles closed between them, Mycroft finds he’s still completely unprepared for the sight that greets him now, separated from his brother by thin centimeters of glass.

Sherlock lies on his side in his institutional bed, wrists and ankles restrained. His position rotated on a regular schedule because he so quickly showed a propensity for bed sores, he’s curled up into himself as much as his padded bonds will allow.

Even with the blankets draped over him, Mycroft can see the softness of Sherlock’s limbs. And though he’s lost weight since being found, there still the visible pudge of a small belly. Were the circumstances different at all, he might feel some unkind pleasure in his previously lean brother’s shifted state.  

Mycroft is broken from these thoughts when he hears the quiet pulse of monitoring machinery: the physician beside him having flipped the antiquated-looking switch at the base of the window. Beneath these sounds from Sherlock’s room, barely audible, wet, rasping breaths offer their own rhythm.  Chest clenching in empathy or something else equally unwieldy, Mycroft is suddenly furious at the stubborn pneumonia, so unwilling to loose its grasp on Sherlock’s taxed lungs.

Stepping around him, the doctor cracks the door signalling someone in the hall. A mere moment later there’s a soft rap on the door of Sherlock’s room and a young nurse steps in.

While it initially appeared Sherlock was sleeping, the instant the nurse knocks, his pale body stiffens and curls impossibly smaller. This makes Mycroft wonder if Sherlock knows about the mirror, if his “sleeping” was merely a performance. If this is the case,  just perhaps, there’s some bit of his brother left intact.

Despite everything a flicker hope sparks within him.

This dims just as quick as it starts, however, when at last those too-large, gray eyes open. The nurse approaches and all Mycroft discerns in Sherlock’s expression is dumb terror. His heart sinks further when Sherlock averts his gaze and dips his dark head towards his restrained hands, mouth seeking the comfort of a thumb.

Chapped lips wrap around it and Sherlock begins anxiously suckling.

* * *

“How’s our patient this afternoon?” The nurse’s heavily-accented English is impossibly cheery as she steps up to the bedside and loosens the restraints so she can lower the bed’s railing. A hand reaches over, not too quickly, to pat the crinkly padding beneath the blanket that covers Sherlock’s hip.

“I bet you’re ready for a change and a rollover, Yes?”

Beneath the nurse’s hand Sherlock tenses and trembles. His muzzy head aches, his chest is heavy, and he’s so tired he can barely move.

 _It’s not fair,_ he thinks, not understanding the seriousness of his illness. Daddy told him he’d only be made into a baby again if he was bad, if he ran away. But he wasn’t, he didn’t. He did everything he could to stay with Daddy.

_It’s not my fault, Daddy… I didn’t want to go. They took me._

These thoughts fill Sherlock with a child’s anger, but though he’s no longer restrained, he’s too weak to lash out. Not that he would even if he felt stronger. For although he  hates being touched by strangers, he’s been through enough nanny’s over the past few years to understand this woman is one of his keepers. And as far back as he can remember, it’s never led to anything nice when he’s caused one of his caretakers grief.

So, he knows even now, he must be a good boy. And this one, younger and not near so stern as his old nannies or many of his new ones, has been relatively kind to him so far.

Because of this he submits. Sherlock allows himself to be shifted onto his back, although it makes breathing harder and he has to loosen his mouth to pull in enough air around his thumb to avoid feeling like he’s smothering. He lies silent. Still as a doll, while the bedclothes are pulled down, the gown he wears, pushed up, exposing more pale skin that immediately pimples into gooseflesh despite how overly warm the room is.

There the “schlick” of  the tapes as his nappy is opened and stripped away.

“Tsk, such delicate skin…”

The nurse eyes the angry rash that covers Sherlock’s groin. They have him on a regular schedule for changing, but even so, it’s not enough it seems.

“Going to have to leave you bare for a bit maybe. Let this get some air.”

Sherlock has already squeezed his eyes shut to hide from the shame of his wetness but the thought of being left naked causes him to cringe tighter. A blush darkens the already hectic color of his fever-blotched cheeks. He knows that if he’s left like this, no matter how hard he tries, he’s going to wet the bed.

He’s just a little boy after all.  

Daddy never minded his accidents but he’s heard these ones who’ve stolen him talking about his _forced “in-con-tin-ence.”_  It’s too big a word for him, really, but he’s figured it out. And his sharp ears have caught pitying “tches” and tones of disgust about it, when people thought him sleeping.

His low belly suddenly aches in anticipatory fear of his impending failure and its consequences.

“No need to fuss, now,” the young nurse soothes, mistaking his soft whine as the result of the gentle but thorough wipes she’s making over raw skin.

But that’s not the reason for the sound and Sherlock whimpers quietly once more: nappies and nannies have him missing his “Daddy” again. Though in truth, there’s little that doesn’t bring Daddy to Sherlock’s mind whenever he’s conscious.

The ever-present ache in his chest blooms brighter and he sucks back a sob with his thumb. He’s been so lonely and lost since he was pulled from the scary water that just wouldn’t stop. And while most all of the people he’s encountered have been relatively gentle with him, none of them are who he wants, who he needs.

_Daddy..._

Her patient cleaned, salved, and appropriately powdered, the nurse nudges Sherlock to lift his hips, placing a thick towel beneath him. Then she leaves him bare, as she’d threatened, the fresh sheets draped over his  shivering frame his only consolation. The last thing she does is pull a syringe from her pocket and fit it to a portal on his I.V. Then she pushes the plunger.

“This will help you relax. You’ll have a bit of time and then you’re going to sleep some more. Yes?”

Sherlock can’t help but make a small desperate huff. Sleeping is the only thing they’ve let him do for ages, keeping him a baby and he hates it. They haven’t even told him yet really what he’s done wrong enough to merit this punishment.  Haven’t even given him the chance to promise to be a good boy again like Daddy does.

Exhausted by his changing, the complexity of these thoughts, and the drug, Sherlock begins to drift almost immediately. Then his “nanny” says something that breaks through the fog and has him struggling awake.

“I’m going to leave you loose for a bit. Okay? You’ve got a visitor and he’ll be coming in a moment. So try not to fall out of the bed before then.”

Wide eyes stare up to meet the nurse’s professional smile. “He’s just arrived and is very anxious to see you.”

Sherlock’s heart thunder’s within his chest.

_Daddy?_

He knows he’s being a silly boy, but even though he saw Daddy so still, so cold. Even though the water flowed into the car through the broken windows and Daddy never popped out a hopeful feeling swells his chest. It makes his weary lungs feel even tighter.

When the nanny leaves and a new figure fills the doorframe, tears fill Sherlock’s eyes and his already congested nose snuffles slickly.  He can’t help but let out a shuddery cry, only half-caught by the thumb in his mouth.

_Daddy?_

It only take a moment for him to realize the man is much taller than Daddy, his body stouter too. Though he doesn’t have the hard shape of one of Daddy’s “helpers,” he carries himself in a way that’s no less imposing.

_Not Daddy…_

The pain in Sherlock’s chest becomes crushing.

Fortunately... _Maybe_ … the man isn’t wearing doctor clothes. Sherlock has had more than enough of those fellows poking and prodding at him. No, the newcomer wears a sharp suit. Not flashy like Daddy’s but serious. Like some of the men his Daddy does “business” with.

Blinking to clear his blurry vision. Sherlock thinks there’s something familiar about this fellow, though he knows in an instant he never met him at any of the “meetings” Daddy took him to. Maybe this is a good thing too, since some of those men were very mean. Back then though, Daddy was always there to protect him from anyone one who might not be nice to his little boy.

 _But Daddy’s not here now._  

At this thought, Sherlock feels a bit of wee escape him, wetting the towel beneath him. Heart pounding, he drops his eyes, pulls his thumb deeper into his mouth, and sucks harder.

* * *

Despite knowing the effects of the drug that has been so recently flushed into his little brother’s bloodstream, Mycroft enters the room slowly, his movements careful. He notes despite this Sherlock still tenses and shrinks. Keen eyes fix on the increased activity in the way Sherlock worries his wrinkled thumb and Mycroft’s fairly certain his brother has just wet himself a little.

He pretends not to notice these things, his weary heart aches enough as it is at how small Sherlock looks. But more than this, given what he’s learned, he knows Sherlock _is_ small now. He’s seen what Moriarty had done to him.

Lifting his eyes from his brother, Mycroft scans the room. Outside Sherlock, everything is just as it should be.

Bleak.

Mycroft knows already his _little,_ little brother shouldn’t be tied into a cold hospital bed in a sterile white room. No, Sherlock should be tucked into a comfortable cot, wrapped in color and soft blankets. While he’s had the resources to do this, could have had these things ordered in and set up before he arrived, he’s resisted.

Likewise, his brother’s attendants, outside the nurse who just left, have all been ordered to be gentle, but cool and clinical. And the rash… Well it could have been avoided if he’d let them catheterize his brother, but he didn’t.

Given Sherlock’s state all this may seem rather cruel but like most things Mycroft does, there’s a reason.  

Knowing he’s going to employ some of the same tactics Moriarty did to tether his brother to him now is patently disagreeable. Mycroft pushes away the nausea that grips him: it’s an unhelpful sensation. Besides, he’s here at last and ready to put his shoulder into the undoing of Sherlock’s damage however he must.

Not that this is going to be easy by any means.

“Sherlock…” Modulating his tone, Mycroft models it after Moriarty’s speech patterns from the videos. His voice is far warmer than usual, but there’s no denying the command stitched into the name.

“I need you to look at me.”

When sleepy, scared eyes finally lift to meet his own, Mycroft pulls on his PR grin; the one that always makes his cheeks feel far too tight. “Do you remember who I am?”

Sadly, he knows the answer to the question before it’s asked. There’s not even a flicker of recognition in  Sherlock’s gray gaze.

“Sherlock, I’m your older brother, Mycroft.”

The furious sucking of thumb ceases, and around it Sherlock’s expression becomes one of utter confusion.

“I grew up and went away when you were so little…” Mycroft leaves off the rest, allowing Sherlock time to cast his shattered mind as far back as it can recall. “But I remember you, of course. Daddy’s sweet boy. He always loved you most.

“Not that I minded.

“You see I loved you too. Very much. Both Daddy and I knew what a special one you are.”

At the word “Daddy” Sherlock’s drug-heavy eyes suddenly open wide. They scan Mycroft filled with a sad and terrible longing.

“D-daddy?”

The name is wheezed so softly around Sherlock’s thumb it’s almost lost, but Mycroft hears it. It’s the only word his brother has spoken since he was plucked from the torrent.

“Mmmm…” Mycroft nods, his face becoming serious.

He shushes lightly when Sherlock’s drooly bottom lip begins to tremble. “No tears now. Daddy was always proud of what a brave little soldier you were. I know this too.” There’s no overt untruth in these words and he makes sure his tone is certain.

At this, Sherlock snuffles loudly and it’s obvious to Mycroft his little brother is about to completely unravel. He steels himself and presses forward. “Now, Sherlock, even though I grew big and went out into the world, Daddy and I still talked regularly.

“That’s what good boys do, after all. Even when they’re big, they never forget who their papas are.

“Right?”

Mycroft watches Sherlock’s jumbled brain process. Finally there’s a small hiccuping sob and a nod.

“That’s so very good that you know that, Sherlock. It’s very important.” Mycroft smiles a though he’s running for office. “Because Daddy told me if ever anything was to happen to him, as your big brother, I should find you and take care of his Sherlock for him.

“I had to promise even.”

There’s really no lie in this either: Mycroft is relaying the truth of their life as brothers, though he knows Sherlock is thinking of Moriarty as “Daddy” and not their real father. Regardless, the effect is just what Mycroft expects. Thin shoulders sag and shake. Sherlock’s head drops and his breathing becomes increasingly ragged.

“I know how scary this must be for you, sweet boy. Especially if you don’t remember me anymore. But you were always so good for Daddy.”

It’s clear to Mycroft, Sherlock is overwhelmed and panicked now. As much as he hates this, it’s perfect. Folding  at the knees to make himself less intimidating, he opens the leather bag he’s retained. He pulls out a stuffed toy. Lifts it so its auburn snout just peeks over the edge of Sherlock’s bed. Wiggles it a bit.

Despite his state, the motion registers and Sherlock glances up. The sight of the plush Irish Setter stills him immediately. It’s the first real spot of color he’s seen since they took him away from Daddy, the first toy too.

“I asked Puppy here, if he’d come with me… since you might not remember me and this might make you feel scared. Puppy’s told me he’s very good at helping little boys be brave. But I’m not so sure now if he’s not a bit frightened himself. Usually he doesn’t travel so far from home, you see.”

Mycroft watches Sherlock’s eyes shift between him and the dog. The thumb slides free from his brother’s mouth and the dark head nods hesitantly but with more vigor, indicating Sherlock knows just how the toy might feel.

Sherlock glances a shy look up at him then, still fearful but not so terrified, silently asking permission. Unconsciously, thin, hopeful fingers edge just slightly forward.

As soon as Mycroft gives a hum of assent, Sherlock reaches out further to stroke the stuffed pup’s soft, silky ears. Watching his little brother get lost in the toy’s soothing texture, he continues.

“Maybe the two of you could both help each other?”

Sherlock’s dark head is still nodding even as the toy is pushed closer. It’s only a matter of moments then, before Puppy has been gathered up, tucked safely to the rasping chest and beneath a damp chin.

“Yes… I think that will work very nicely.” Mycroft watches his brother snuggle in and Sherlock’s breathing begin to even out.

* * *

 

Puppy clenched to him, Sherlock presses a silky ear to his cheek. He holds it there between softly flexing fingers. He’s been missing his Teddy almost as much as he misses Daddy, though he knows this is terribly wicked of him; since Daddy’s obviously so much more important.  

And although he feels a bit guilty too about betraying Teddy like this, Teddy isn’t here and it seems true that Puppy _is_ good at helping little boys. Because before his brain was all whirling and muddled with brothers he didn’t know about. Ones who got to grow up.

And leave.

 _Why would any little boy want to get big and leave Daddy?_ He simply doesn’t understand that at all.

But now he has Puppy to help him. And, after looking  into Puppy’s sad glass eyes, he’s agreed to help Puppy too…

As soon as he's snuggled in, Puppy starts whispering under his chin. Somehow he knows and reminds Sherlock how many times Daddy told him that there’s lots of thing little boy’s don’t need to understand, and that this is probably one of them. And he tells Sherlock really it doesn’t matter whatever the reason “Brother” got to get big and got away. All Sherlock needs to remember is that his brother has said he is a good boy like him.

One who will follow Daddy’s orders.

Having worked through this, Sherlock lifts his eyes to “Brother.” He’s not little and lean and bouncy like Daddy. And his eyes look worried and sad, kind of like Puppy’s, despite his frozen smile.

No, Brother is not like Daddy, but he’s not like the doctors and the nurses either.

As he’s considering this, a cool hand ruffles lightly through sodden bangs. Sherlock’s too tired to stiffen or pull away. That’s okay though, because after a few moments, he realizes just how good it feels, Brother just petting him with his chill, dry skin. Soft fingertips rub lightly at his forehead where it aches so fiercely and Sherlock closes his eyes.

“That’s it, sweet boy. You just rest. Your brother, Mycroft, is here now.. I’m going to look after you, Sherlock. We’ll get through this, you and I, because that’s what family does… Yes?”

Nodding seems like too much work at the moment and Sherlock’s maybe not quite ready to believe Brother entirely.

Yet.

Then soft fur tickles under his nose and he’s reminded that Brother did give Puppy to him.  He squeezes his new plushie closer to his chest where it suddenly doesn’t feel quite so tight as before. In fact, something's budding there that might even feel a little bit hopeful.

 _After all,_ _he said he “promised."_

Because if Brother _is_ good, and he _did_ make a promise to Daddy, maybe, now he’ll get to go home and not have to stay here anymore. Maybe he can show his big brother too, that he doesn’t need to be kept such a baby, and will get to be a little bit bigger.

 _Not too big_ , Sherlock reminds himself as thin fingers of dream pull at him, drawing him further into the darkness behind his closed lids.

 _Oh, no._ He’s learned that particular far lesson too well. _Big is bad _ and whether Daddy’s there or not, Sherlock will make sure he stays little.

After all, Brother’s not the only one who made promises to Daddy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two jobs and some health stuff have complicated things, this said, I am apologizing ahead of time for slow updates.
> 
> However, if you like the direction of this fic, you should know KickingRoses has got her own recovery story up now, (I was taking too long, I think). Anyway, Kicking's story is entitled "Broken Little Soldier." It is fantastic, wonderfully written, and far further along than my meager ramblings. So I encourage you to check it out
> 
> Thanks for reading.


	2. Redbeard

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I realized the other day that I had clicked the wrong box, indicating this was finished. It's not. No idea how long it will be or how frequently it will be updated, but you can see by the initial posting date and now, there's likely to be a long wait between chapters.

In a room adjoining Brother’s office, Sherlock sits in the corner, Puppy tucked close to his chest, shielded behind bended knees. Late afternoon sunlight filters through a large window and dust motes dance in the beams.

Sherlock watches them drift and twirl. He feels like them, he thinks: suspended, spinning, slowing drifting downwards.

_That’s a big thought…_

Grey eyes drop to Puppy, or _Redbeard_ as Sherlock has taken to secretly calling him. Sherlock rubs a soft ear in thanks for the warning. Redbeard is so smart and a very good watchdog: always letting him know when his boy draws too close to anything dangerous.

_Like Daddy did._

A familiar ache wells in his chest. The doctors Brother takes him to have said he’s all better now; that he’s healed. Sherlock doesn’t believe them, however. True, he can breathe easier than when Brother first came.

_Most of the time._

But the pain sitting just over his heart never leaves.

Shifting his gaze from Redbeard’s glassy-eyed stare, he casts a wistful glance down at his thumbs. He so wants to suck one. But it has only been a few days since Brother took off the mittens and he’s trying very hard to show he can be a good boy this time.

Besides, he’s learned now that, as much as they’re different, Brother is very much like Daddy in the ways he tends to see everything: knows what happens even when he’s not there. And Brother’s disappointment has quickly become almost as potent as Daddy’s. So, as much as he longs for the comfort, wrapping his thumbs within long fingers instead, Sherlock tucks the temptation away.

“Sherlock…”

At his name, Sherlock’s dark head pops up. Miss Anthy has been sitting with him for the past few hours. She only watches him on special occasions and Sherlock can tell when she does, she's not pleased at all about having to do it.

Like now: even though she’s called out to him, her gaze hasn’t even lifted from her blackberry.

He’s always wondered what’s on it that’s so fascinating it can hold her attention like it does, but she told him once when he appeared too interested it was “not his business.” The way she’d said made Sherlock fear he would be punished later for his curiosity, but Brother didn’t.

When Brother _does_ punish, which hasn’t been often, his methods are very different from Daddy’s. Sherlock hasn’t decided yet if he’s grateful for this or not.

Miss Anthy calls out again, rousing him from his thoughts. “It’s about time for you to go again. So you better pop up and take care of your business. Mr. Holmes will be arriving shortly, his meeting’s just done.”

A wrinkle of worry creases Sherlock’s forehead at this news. He doesn’t really feel like his has to pee right now. But Brother’s got him on a strict schedule to avoid ‘accidents’ and he’s gone three days without one.

He’s been promised a prize if he makes it a whole week.

Truthfully he could care less about a ‘prize.’ His new room at Brother’s flat is actually too full of things as it is. Sometimes having so much stuff to look at makes his head hurt. And right now, just making Brother proud is enough to keep him striving.

Besides the one thing he truly wants… the one person… is never coming back again. At least, that’s what he was told. “Dead,” Brother had said on the plane ride back to London, giving the word no particular inflection.

That was the first time Sherlock realized Brother and Daddy might not have been as close as Brother had previously indicated.

_Dead._

Even though he saw Daddy so cold and quiet, it’s still very hard for Sherlock to really believe this. He truly thought Daddy was going to live forever. And though he’s not said so to anyone… Daddy does continue to live on, _kind of_... He visits Sherlock nightly in his dreams.

“Sherlock…” Miss Anthy still hasn’t looked up, but there’s clearly a warning in her tone now.

Sherlock clutches Redbeard to his chest, careful not to lose him as he rises. His cheeks pink slightly at the crinkle of the nappy under the loose, long slacks brother had laid out for him to wear today. His blush deepens when the noise rouses Miss Anthy at last and she peers over her blackberry. He knows “big boys” like him shouldn’t have to wear nappies.

Only Sherlock doesn’t feel very big. Doesn’t want to either.

“You should leave your toy with me. Don’t want it getting dirty.”

Sherlock bites back a huff at this. _Redbeard isn’t a toy!_ He’s the realest thing in his life right now, the closest he has to a friend, and he fervently doesn’t wish to relinquish his fuzzy companion/guardian for an instant. But he knows better than to quarrel, no matter how much he’d like to.

Still he can’t entirely hide his pout as he trudges over and holds Redbeard out.

“Good lad,” Miss Anthy murmurs, eyes dipping back to her device as she takes Redbeard none too carefully and settles him on her lap.

Sherlock longs to snatch him back and crawl under a table and hide there until Brother comes, and long past this, actually. But he moves dutifully, steps into the in-suite bathroom and closes the door softly behind him.

His eyes dart warily over to the toilet and the tick of his heart increases. He knows that there’s nothing in the smooth white porcelain that can hurt him but that doesn’t alleviate any of his mounting anxiety. Biting his lower lip, he whimpers. He didn’t think he had to go before, but now all of a sudden his bladder feels impossibly full. A hand dips down beneath the loose waist of his trousers and grabs his willy though the padding.

The urge to go is now beyond urgent, but he can’t seem to make himself move.

If it was one of his other keepers sitting outside the door he might risk calling out. He has a couple nice ones who are willing to help him, even though Brother keeps insisting that he do this for himself.

Miss Anthy is not one of these, however.

Finally Sherlock gets himself moving but it’s too late. He's two feet from the loo when the first spurt occurs, hot and wet. Once the floodgate has been opened it can’t be closed; within seconds his nappy has become soaked and heavy. Sunk with the shame of this his long legs fold, leaving Sherlock in a sodden crouch.

He’s still sitting like this, squatted down, thin arms crossed over his head, rocking, when the door behind him clicks. Sherlock knows immediately who’s there, he can smell the light aftershave Brother wears. Rather than stop, however, his bobbing ratchets up.

“Oh, Sherlock… Really?”

Brother’s voice isn’t mad but Sherlock would prefer that over the tired resignation he hears. He’s disappointed… _Again._

Then there’s long legs beside him clad in fine gray slacks and soft fingers in his hair. It’s too much, this kind touch, after he’s failed once more. Before he can help it, Sherlock turns, wraps his arms around his brother’s knees and buries his teary face into rich fabric. When Brother stiffens at this embrace, his heart tears a little. It only lasts a few seconds, however, before Brother relents and the stilled hand in his hair begins to stroke again.

“Ah, well… You’ve had a long day, haven’t you.”

There’s a soft sigh from above him and Sherlock can hear the weariness in it. “As usual, things took longer than I anticipated. Andrea told me you’d been good for her though.”

These words only make Sherlock cry harder. He had tried. It was impossible to really gauge his performance when being so steadily ignored, but he’d thought he’d made an admirable effort trying not to be troublesome. At least, until his accident.

“Up now. Let’s get you squared away so we can get home. I think you’re far overdue for a lie down.”

Numbly Sherlock minds. He rises, cheeks heating, watching brother take a new pullup nappy out from the cabinet under the sink. Dropping his eyes away, he fumbles with his trousers, the buttons and zip still feeling too fine for his “little” fingers to smoothly navigate.

Stockinged-feet step out of tailored fabric before wriggling out of the soiled garment.

“Did you soak through?”

Both the question and its tone are benign, but Sherlock has to bite back new sobs. He shakes his head miserably.

“Well, that’s good news then at least, isn’t it.” A cloth, wet and warmed from the tap, is passed over. “Scrub your face first. No need for tears, Sherlock. We’ll just start over again. Alright.”

But it isn’t alright and Brother’s calm tone only makes Sherlock want to shout.

It’s true he didn’t want to have to stay a baby, though Brother has assured him that was never his intention, it merely seemed that way when he was unwell. But this growing up is hard, and as much as he’d hoped Daddy might eventually let him use the loo like a big boy, it wasn’t meant to happen like this.

And Sherlock knows without any doubt Daddy would have never allowed for his boy to grow as big as Brother seems determined to make him. Rather than say any of this, however, he takes the cloth from Brother and rubs his face extra hard. Outside Redbeard, he only has Brother now and the idea of where he’d end up without him terrifies.

Brother has Sherlock wash his privates next before having him sit down on the toilet. Even after has his new pullup is drawn up to just below his knobby knees and his trousers slipped back on over his feet, Brother tells him he needs to sit for a bit and make sure he’s truly empty.

He’s left there, wrinkled willy tucked down between pale thighs while Brother steps back out to 'debrief' with Miss Anthy.

“You know I’ve never questioned your orders, Mr. Holmes.” Miss Anthy’s words drift through the open door.

“I know, Andrea. I do apologize. And as I said, I’ll personally compensate you for this extra _task.”_

“This isn’t about money. I get paid well enough and I don’t want yours.” There’s a deep sigh and Miss Anthy’s voice is kinder than Sherlock has ever heard it. “But this isn’t what I signed on for.”

“Yes… Yes… You’re quite right. It’s just… there’s so few people I trust with him.”

“And the one that you should... The one he needs... Why haven’t you asked him?”

There’s a long silence then.

Sherlock knows it’s naughty to eavesdrop. Daddy once threatened to take an icepick to his eardrums for doing as much, but Brother’s made no such promises and Redbeard isn't there to warn him off. So, straining to listen, he leans far enough to the side the wooden ring beneath him creaks.

“Sir, you have that trip to Geneva coming up and you know you can’t take him with you. And if you’re so unhappy with your help... You really should call him.”

“Yes. I know. It’s just… well his _arrangement_ is different now. And Sherlock’s...”

It’s painful to hear Brother sound unsure, worse still to know he’s the reason for it.

“With all your deductive prowess, Mr. Holmes, I am afraid this time you might be mistaken. And what’s more, I know, as you surely do too, he’s in between books at the moment. You know him. He’d likely welcome the diversion. Besides, don’t you think it’s time to let him know you’ve found him?”

“But Sherlock…”

“Is still Sherlock and I’ll wager because of that, it’s not likely to matter to him how he is now. And, in my humble opinion, Mr. Holmes… despite all you’ve done, if anyone can help him come back, I’d put my money there. Sorry...”

Sherlock wishes he could see brother’s face now: if he’s angry or stricken or, even worse, not reacting at all. He knows that Brother is keeping his promise to Daddy to look after him, but it’s also been clear that as good as he’s tried to be, he’s been a severe disruption to Brother’s life. Sherlock's stomach twists painfully and a little more pee dribbles out of him at the thought of Brother leaving him alone with someone else.

Yet another new person.

Even worse, that Brother, like Daddy, might abandon him now, leave him with some stranger.

“Thank you, for your honesty, Andrea. I’ll take your suggestion into consideration.”

“Yes, Sir.”

The professional tones have resumed and Sherlock slumps back down, staring, now that his pudge has eroded, at the little wrinkles this posture makes in his belly skin.

“Shall I call your car, Mr. Holmes?”

“Er.. Yes. Please do. Tell him we’ll be down in ten. I just need to get Sherlock ready.”

“Yes, Sir. Will you be needing me anymore after that?”

“No, Andrea. You’ve done more than enough already. You’re free to take off. I hope you have an enjoyable evening.”

Sherlock is still staring at his belly when Brother comes back in.

“All done?”

Not looking up he just nods. Then brother is kneeling before him before he can rise, slipping shoes with laces on his stockinged feet. Despite how tormented he feels, a soft sigh of relief escapes when Brother doesn’t force him to try and tie the laces, but does it for him.

* * *

 

The car ride home through London traffic seems interminable, as usual, and Sherlock almost always finds himself feeling more than a little sick before they finally reach the flat. Clutching his returned Redbeard to his belly, he imagines his puppy whispering soft soothing commands to his innards.

Some days this fantasy helps, but not today. Not after hearing about Brother's trip and leaving him off somewhere.

Keeping his head down, Sherlock avoids looking out the car window. His world was so small with Daddy that now everything else is too big. It’s too loud, too bright. It all overwhelms. Gray eyes dart over to Brother, sitting so stiff in his seat, perusing some papers. He wants to shift over and bury his face in the man’s side, but he doesn’t dare.

Despite how covert he thinks he’s being, Brother catches him. He must see immediately how Sherlock’s feeling since one hand immediately goes to the windows’ controls and it’s suddenly cracked. However, the chilled fresh air is laced with diesel fumes that do nothing to ease Sherlock’s sense of sickness.

Brother tucks his papers away into his briefcase. “Would you like to play a game, Sherlock?”

This is always a loaded question but desperate for a diversion right now, Sherlock nods.

Long fingers dip into the leather case and Brother pulls out a knit cap. Sherlock’s stomach immediately feels about ten pounds heavier. He should have known Brother would pick the _deducing_ game. He doesn’t know why they always have to play this one. He always loses and Sherlock hates it.

Brother knows this, he’s sure, but it doesn’t stop him from picking it.

“What can you tell me about this cap and its wearer, Sherlock?”

Loosening one hand from Redbeard, Sherlock reluctantly takes the cap with lightly trembling fingers. He turns it, flopping it over listlessly, this way and that. His eyes scan the cap. This game means using his words. He sighs.

“S-soft.”

The longer he stares at the cap, the more he sees.

_Merimo wool, handspun, not commercially processed, not knit by the spinner though… but a different person. Left handed. Someone who’d been knitting for years, though their attention varied, given the shifts in the knits’ tightness. Maybe knitting while watching telly? Obviously conscious of who they were making it for. Held that person with affection…_

His brain begins to buzz with excitement.

“Pretty colors...”

_Vegetable dyes, natural. Like the wool. Whoever made this is environmentally conscious… Well off, given the quality of the the wool and the vibrancy of the dyes: so, not the run of the mill hippy-earth lover. The palette indicates it was made for a male, not a female. Though in this day and age, one must be careful with such assertions._

A picture of a man shimmers in the eye of his mind, but before he can solidify, Redbeard barks.

At the sound Sherlock stiffens because it's not Redbeard's usually puppy sound... No, this bark is angry and it sounds like Daddy's voice.

_Yes. Right… Too big… Too much. Bad..._

Suddenly his head hurts. Sherlock's eyes ache fiercely with strain and tears. And now, even with the cracked window, there’s no air in the car and he can’t breathe. He shoves the cap back at Brother.

“That’s all. It just a silly hat. And your game is stupid!” It’s all he can do to gasp out the words.

As soon as they leave his mouth Sherlock cringes and a sad whimper escapes him. He's just used far too much language from his limited stockpile and he knows he’s surely going to get punished now for being such a brat.

If only Brother understood how dangerous his games were sometimes, how much they hurt.

Before he can apologize like a good boy should, the car takes a slight bump and his stomach lurches. It’s the last straw. Sherlock's tortured innards spasm and he vomits what remains of his late afternoon snack onto the backseat floor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter will be more Mycroft's POV. After that will be a look at John's new "arrangement." Then I'll see if I can't get John and Sherlock back together at last.
> 
> Anyways, thank you for reading.


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